But still, alas, in vain: whate'er Delight,
What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,
Love still revenges it at night.
'Tis then he haunts the Royal Tent,
The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,
And all his Resolutions does prevent.
In all his Pains, Love mixt his Smart;
In every Wound he feels a Dart;
And the soft God is trembling in his Heart.
Then he retires to shady Groves,
And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,
And strives to fly from what he cannot lose.
While thus he lay, Bellona came,
And with a gen'rous fierce Disdain,
Upbraids him with his feeble Flame.
Arise, the World's great Terror, and their Care;
Behold the glitt'ring Host from far,
That waits the Conduct of the God of War.
Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were made
To crown the noble Victor's Head,
Why thus supinely art thou laid?
Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,
Thy Sun-parch'd Cheeks why do I view
The shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?
What God has wrought these universal Harms?
What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,
Has made the Heroe deaf to War's Alarms?
Now let the conqu'ring Ensigns up be furl'd:
Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl'd;
And idle, lose the Empire of the World.